


A Study in Lexicography

by kissedtheeaves



Series: Fairly Domestic [1]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Living Together, M/M, The Post-Film Fic In Which There is Ikea Furniture, and lots of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-12 03:26:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissedtheeaves/pseuds/kissedtheeaves
Summary: “This is how the world ends,” says Wade. “Not with a bang, but a loveseat.”Or, how Deadpool and Cable found themselves living together.





	1. Chapter 1

The taxi ride home is… rather awkward.

For one thing, the taxi looks like a fucking clown car. There’s Domino in the front seat, Russell, Wade, and Cable wedged in the back. Wade sits between them, one hand resting on Russell’s shoulder in a fatherly sort of way, and the other on Cable’s thigh in a decidedly _not_ familial way.

It’s the small things in life, truly.

Dopinder drops Domino off at a high-rise apartment complex that looks like something out of an architect’s wet dream. She gives them a merry wave and says, “This was kind of fun. Text me if you want to do it again.”

“Next time a murder-happy time traveler shows up, you’re first on my list,” Wade calls after her.

Cable grumbles but does not protest.

Next up: the kid. Wade protested that he was perfectly capable of keeping a person alive—well, he did have a Chia pet that lasted a whole six months, but Colossus insisted that Russell be taken to the mansion. Russell looks torn between hope and utter terror, and Wade goes in with him—at least to get him settled and write his cell number on a post-it.

(Using his own pen, of course.)

When Wade comes out of the mansion, he sees Cable still in the back seat of the car.

He’s asleep. Head tilted against the glass, mouth slightly parted. It’s a-fucking-dorable and Wade snaps a picture on his phone before pulling the car door open. Cable’s eyes snap open and he’s upright at once.

“Have a good nap?” says Wade cheerily, as Dopinder puts the car in drive.

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Rebooting?”

Cable turns to look out the window and doesn’t reply.

“Where to, Mr. Cable?” asks Dopinder.

The slightest glance is flicked forward, and in the driver’s mirror Wade sees a glimmer of orange. Then Cable closes his eyes, and there is the smallest exhalation. Not quite a sigh, but just a release of tension.

And that’s when Wade has a flash of insight. The guy has nowhere to go.

And it’s kind of Wade’s fault. If things had gone according to plan, Cable would be in some Futurama-esque cityscape with his daughter and wife, and a robotic dog or some shit like that. Instead, he’s sitting in the back of a dented taxi, listening to the best of Bollywood, with a hilariously large gun and a teddy bear.

It’s kind of sad. And that’s coming from the guy with stage four cancer, a blown-up apartment and a recently deceased girlfriend.

Fuck it.

“I know a place,” says Wade.

* * *

The place is a bolt hole of Weasel’s. The only reason Wade has a key is because he slipped it from Weasel’s keyring years ago, just in case of emergencies. It’s a basement apartment loaded with inflatable furniture, video games, and enough Hot Pockets to last until the sun burns itself out.

Cable surveys the apartment like it’s enemy territory.

“What is this place?”

“Where we’re crashing for a few days,” says Wade. “At least until I can get my hands on a computer and the apartments listing on Craigslist.” He gestures at the mini-fridge. “Help yourself, I’m sure it’s well stocked.”

Cable bends over the small fridge, pulling the door open with a certain amount of wariness. He pulls a beer out.

Wade pokes his head into the bedroom. “One bed. Either we’re going to have to share or—”

“I’ve slept on worse.” Cable settles himself on the couch. His gaze is distant, his voice even more so. Wade feels that pang of sympathy again, and he quickly goes down the mental list of ways to cheer someone up. Cuddling is out, his cocaine stash is at Al’s, and beer has already been provided. Food, Wade decides.

He calls into a few places—Mexican, Thai, and a pizza joint. All of the delivery guys show up at the same time, eyeing each other like they’re going to have to reenact the Hunger Games over the tip. Wade carries two boxes and three bags downstairs, setting the bounty on the plastic coffee table. Its legs bend beneath the weight.

Cable is on his second beer, and he regards the food with a raised eyebrow.

“I figured if you’re going to stay, you should sample the delicacies,” Wade tells him. “I suggest the pizza or the spring rolls as an appetizer.”

Wade digs into a tostada, but Cable merely picks up a slice of pizza and says, “People in my time would kill each other over this much food.”

 _Captain Buzzkill reporting for duty_ , Wade thinks. Aloud he says, “Well, if you’re going to keep that from happening, you’re going to have to refuel.”

Once in a while, Wade stumbles on the right thing to say. And this time, he watches the hard line of Cable’s shoulders relax. He closes his eyes for a moment, exhales, then picks up the pizza. It feels like a victory when Cable takes a bite. He chews, frowns, and says, “What is this?”

“Pineapple and olive.”

* * *

Domino finds him the apartment. There’s been a lack of anything on the market that doesn’t come with a free side of roaches or leaking pipes, but the moment Dom plugs into Craigslist, she finds a perfect little two-bedroom place in a rent-controlled building.

“Two bedrooms,” she says. “One for you and one for your guns?”

“Well, he does own a gun.”

Domino’s brows flick upward. “Oh. So you’re moving in with Cable? I thought this was… just a temp thing.”

“It is just a temp thing,” Wade replies. “Until he hacks into some government database and steals someone’s social security number and makes a fake passport or whatever. Guy can’t rent a place by himself right now.”

Domino taps the screen. “Well, this still seems your best bet. Pets are allowed, too.” Her fingers are a blur across the keyboard. “In case you want to get a…” She frowns at him. “You’re a cat person, aren’t you?”

“Actually I was thinking fish. Piranha, to be exact. Maybe in a tank just beneath the front door. We could get a lever and if anyone comes trying to sell us something, boom.”

“You’re a cat person,” she says, with the finality of someone shutting a door.

“Why the fuck would I be a cat person?” He points at himself. “What about me screams ‘I just love aloof animals that glare at me?’”

Cable prowls into the kitchen, pulls open the mini-fridge, and pulls out a beer. Silently, he gives a nod to Domino, then vanishes into the bedroom.

“I don’t know,” says Domino. “Just a hunch.”

* * *

They do get the apartment.

Moving is simple, as neither possess much. Wade’s stuff is smoking cinders and charred plastic, and Cable seems to travel light.

Which is how both of them end up in Ikea. Wade shoves a notepad into Cable’s hands, along with a laughably small pencil, and says seriously, “How do you feel about red as an accent color?”

Cable looks as though Wade just dropped him naked into the middle of a war zone. His eyes sweep across the store, over leather couches and sofas, end tables and curtains, and his mouth tightens. “This is what kills the fucking planet. This excess. Half of it will end up clogging landfills, because it’s shoddily made crap that only lasts a few years.”

“This is how the world ends,” says Wade. “Not with a bang, but a loveseat.”

Cable glowers.

“Come on, we need stuff,” says Wade. “Tables and pillows and crap. Unless you like squatting in a hotel or Weasel’s basement.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Come on. If you’re a good boy, we’ll get a fancy-ass knife set.”

Cable tilts his head, as if searching for vital points he can puncture.

“You want to save the planet,” says Wade, “you have to be well-rested. Think of this as supplies for a base of operations.”

“A base of operations,” repeats Cable.

“With affordable Swedish furniture.”

* * *

They fall into a routine.

Wade works. He gets jobs, both from Weasel and occasionally from Chateau de Virgin. The latter don’t pay well, but they keep X-Force in the government’s good graces, and at least those jobs usually draw in both Domino and Cable. It’s nice to have a team, even if they’re usually grumbling and bruised by the end of it.

The apartment takes on a life of its own—Wade has his bedroom and his stuff spills out into the living room, but the kitchen belongs to Cable. It’s kept scrupulously clean and orderly, and there’s a cupboard full of canned goods. And water. And enough ammo to supply a militia—or a small family in Arizona. “When I said base of operations, I was thinking more figurative than literal,” says Wade, when he goes to search for Nutella and comes up with a gun taped to the inside of the cupboard.

Cable grunts.

He has an entire language that consists entirely of monosyllabic non-replies. It takes Wade a few months, but he begins to understand them. _You’re a fucking moron_ has an entirely different intonation than his grunt for _I’m hungry and all that’s in the kitchen is hot sauce and pop tarts._ There are layers to every grunt, every tilt of his head, every sharp exhalation. And sure, Wade may have failed eighth grade Spanish, but this time he’s paying attention.

Cable spends his days trying to educate himself about the current time—he’s trying to find a way to avert the future, a task that seems to weigh heavily on him. He watches the news and grumbles. Reads the paper and snarls. Opens Twitter and fumes.

“You need a hobby,” says Wade. He’s trying his hand at cooking—well, actually he’s trying to make pancakes in the shape of dicks, but it’s the same thing. “Have you tried knitting?”

“I’m not knitting.”

For relaxation, Cable works on his gun. And as much as Wade wishes that were a euphemism for something else, it’s not. One day, he comes home to find gun parts spread across their coffee table and the scent of gun oil heavy in the air.

“Don’t stain the fjyallbo, you futuristic caveman,” calls Wade, as he sets his gear on the kitchen counter.

Cable grunts, which translates to _Too late_.

Wade walks into their small living room. Cable sits on the red loveseat, his fanny pack beside him, one pouch open to reveal several small wrenches. One such wrench is tucked into the corner of Cable’s mouth, and his eyes are wholly focused on the task before him.

Wade reaches down to touch the gun, but Cable says, “Touch that and I will shove a grenade in your mouth and pull the pin.”

Wade lifts his hands, palms out, in mock surrender. “All right, big guy.”

So he sits on the loveseat’s arm. Right beside Cable. The older man’s eyes slip shut for just a moment, and Wade just knows Cable is silently begging some deity to give him patience. Then he goes back to working on the gun.

Wade watches quietly for a good thirty seconds before saying, “Can you build me a gun like this?”

A slight twitch of his left eye. “I could,” he says. Then, “I won’t.”

“Oh come on. I haven’t been this turned on by a piece of equipment since I learned you can make yogurt in an instant pot.”

“Is _that_ what is in the pressure cooker?” A flicker crosses Cable’s face. “Thought it was something else. Wouldn’t have thrown it out, then.”

“ _You threw out our instant pot?_ ”

* * *

It’s on Christmas that Wade finds out Cable’s real name.

Wade hasn’t been home in a few weeks. Here’s the thing people don’t realize. Mercenary work and retail have this in common: the holiday season is the busiest time of the year. Maybe it’s the boozy eggnog or having family in town, but there’s always a spike in customers in December. And honestly Wade is grateful for it. The holidays have never been his favorite part of the year: with no family to celebrate with, Christmas always seemed a bit of a joke. Wade and Vanessa made their own traditions, but now—now she’s gone, too. So when Weasel tosses him a card, Wade takes it eagerly. On it is the name of a millionaire who’s in town to see his kids. Which would be heartwarming, if not for the fact his wife usually ends up in the hospital during such visits. Wade has only to glance over a few pictures of x-rays and bruises before he accepts the job.

It’s important to stay passionate about one’s work.

It’s not a quick job—there’s a bodyguard or two, and Wade really doesn’t want to involve the kids. So he watches and works on a My Little Pony coloring book and drinks a shit ton of terrible coffee across from the man’s hotel.

He texts Cable.

_Miss me, honey?_

_Here’s a selfie in case you’ve forgotten what I look like._

_Oops, that was not me, that’s a Starbucks wall. Camera facing the wrong way._

Cable rarely replies, but that never stops Wade. When he’s bored—and all right, he’s bored a lot—he texts Cable. Cable probably has his number blocked; he never replies. But it’s something to do.

_I’ve eaten three cookies shaped like snowmen. You think they’d come up with some new cookie shapes. It’s always snowmen or trees or gingerbread men that you decapitate before eating. Do they have Christmas cookies in the future? Or did Skynet do away with them?_

No answer, of course.

So Wade drinks a gingerbread latte and waits to kill a man. It’s the small things in life, truly.

When the job is done, his suit scrubbed clean of blood, and his swords tucked beneath one arm, Wade strides up the stairs into his apartment. “I’m home,” he says, in that sing-song sitcom voice.

Cable is at the table, picking up a dirty plate. He must have just finished dinner. “Job done?”

“Would I have blood beneath my fingernails if it wasn’t?”

Cable grimaces. “Wash your hands. There are leftovers in the fridge.”

But Wade catches a glimpse of something. His small Christmas tree sits beneath the window—and under it is a box. A box he didn’t put there. Wade squats down beside, picking up the package.

“Why has someone broken into my house and left me a present?”

Cable’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Who the fuck is Nathan and why did he violate the sanctity of our tree?”

“First of all, that is not a fucking tree—it’s a branch you ripped off someone’s tree and threw glitter on. And second, _I’m_ Nathan, dumbass.”

It takes Wade a few seconds to do some mental rearranging.

Thing is, the name does fit. It’s solid, a little sharp. Wade asks, “Does this mean I have to change the name on our mailbox?”

“We don’t have a mailbox.”

It’s true—Wade’s mail goes to Al’s and Cable doesn’t technically exist.

No, not Cable. Nathan. That’s going to take some getting used to. “Nathan,” he says.

Nathan twitches. Just a little.

And for all that he’s a bit of a bastard, Wade’s never been an idiot. Well, maybe he’s never successfully managed to put together Ikea furniture or balance his own taxes, but he knows people.

He knows the last person to call Nathan by that name was probably someone he’ll never talk to again.

“Nate,” Wade decides. And then the second thing occurs to him. “You got me a present?”

Nathan looks as though he’d rather be shot than answer the question. “Yes.”

“Can I open it now?”

“It’s your present.”

Wade has never been good at delayed gratification. So he tears off the neat wrapping job and finds—

A gun.

No dial of doom, no fancy switches or self-destruct buttons. “What’s it do?” Wade asks.

“What do you mean—what does it do?” Nathan’s considerable brow furrows. “It’s a gun. You fire it. Hopefully with the barrel pointed at another person.”

Wade taps said barrel against his own temple. “No—I mean, does it transform into a grappling hook? Shoot lasers? Is this going to do that bubble trick you pulled on Knowhere?”

A grumble and Nathan walks toward the kitchen. “I don’t even know why I bother.”

“No, no,” says Wade, a little deadpan. “It’s a very good gun, I’m sure. Did you learn to build it in post-apocalyptic shop class?”

Another grumble and this one clearly translates to: _You’re an irritating fuck but yes._

“Well, I got something for you, too.” Wade reaches into his backpack and tosses Nathan two packages, one after the other. He catches the first, and the second thuds to the floor.

“Bop it!” squeaks the package.

Nathan nudges it with his foot. “I don’t even want to know,” he says, with utmost seriousness. As for the first present, the unwraps it with the care a person might use on a live bomb.

“What’s this?” Nathan holds up the box and gives it a shake. The insides rattle ominously.

Wade throws him a grin. “Time capsule.”

“Time capsule.” It’s too flat to be a question, but Wade takes it as such.

“Do they really not have those in the future? Seriously? Don’t tell me they’ve done away with Bop-It and Twister, too. You write stuff in it. Maybe something ominous like, ‘Only open when you’re eighteen’ or some shit like that, although who actually listens to those kinds of commands.”

To his slight disappointment, Nathan doesn’t rise to the bait. He merely gazes down at the box, in full-blown heavy brow stare mode.

“Please tell me that’s not your blue screen of death face,” says Wade. “Because the last time my computer did that, the genius bar—”

“Archival paper.” Nathan turns the box over, reading from the back. “Acid free ink. Chemicals to prevent corrosion. This is built to last.” He raises his eyes to meet Wade’s stare. “I could—leave messages. For Hope.” Every word is parsed out, as if saying them slowly will make them more real.

“That is the general idea, yeah.”

The look on Nathan’s face is something completely unreadable. There are no grunts to decipher, no exasperated sighs or twitches in his neck. He’s utterly still, and Wade opens his mouth to say, _Your other present is a Bop-It because there was a two-for-one sale,_ when someone slams their fist into the door. “Merry Christmas, boys,” comes Domino’s voice. “I brought brandy.”

* * *

A few weeks later, Wade finds Nathan polishing his swords.

And _dear God_ he wishes that were a euphemism for something. The twin katanas sit on the stained coffee table, and Nathan has two fingers pressed to an oiling cloth. He runs the cloth down the edge of the blade, hand steady and eyes focused.

“If you wanted to get your hands on my sword, all you had to do was ask,” says Wade, before he can stop himself.

“You should be keeping these in better shape,” says Nathan, gliding the cloth over the edge. There is such a surety in the motion, a kind of easy confidence, and fuck it all—it’s sexy. Wade isn’t sure what it says about him that one of his (many) turn-ons is a person who knows their way around deadly weaponry. To be honest, he doesn’t really care.

And if he brings himself off picturing those hands, well—no one needs to know.

* * *

Something shifts.

Wade isn’t quite sure when it happened, but Nathan starts coming with him on a few jobs. A hit on a child trafficker in London, a New Jersey mob family who’s been forcibly recruiting mutants, and a stalker in Omaha. They don’t kill the last one—rather, Nathan picks the man up by his collar and calmly tells him exactly how many ways he’ll hurt him if he comes within a three-state radius of his ex-girlfriend. The dark timbre of Nathan’s voice is enough to have Wade hastening for the hotel shower once the job is done, teeth biting down on his knuckles so Nathan won’t hear him.

When he’s done, he showers properly and dons sweatpants and a Batman t-shirt. He pushes the door open and finds Nathan sitting on one of the double beds, watching a competitive cooking show. Cupcakes of all things. Wade grins, feeling that warm wave of affection for—

_Shit._

He hasn’t felt this way since—

_Fuck._

He likes Nathan. He likes the way Nathan always leaves leftovers for him in the fridge, how he shaves his hair into that ridiculous fuck-boy haircut, how he can speak an entire conversation in a few grunts, and—

Lust is easier. Wade lusts after a lot of people—but he doesn’t like a lot of people.

“There are some take-out menus in the drawer,” says Nathan.

“Look at you—thinking about take-out. You’ve gone native.” Wade settles on his own bed. The duvet is scratchy beneath his bare fingertips.

He notices the paper cradled between Nathan’s knees. He’s using the hotel’s welcome binder to write on, and Wade recognizes the pen.

“You’re writing a letter?” he says, perking up.

Nathan nods, but he doesn’t look up. The page is empty, save for two words—and Wade thinks he knows what they are.

_Dear Hope._

“What can I say?” Nathan runs a hand across his face. “‘Hi sweetie, I love you. Sorry Daddy had to go away but he had to prevent you from being immolated by going back in time to kill another kid, but I got held up by some asshole who proved to be a better person than I am.’”

There is so much to unpack in that single sentence that Wade finds himself just gaping for a moment. Then he says, “I shish kabobbed about eight people in a week.”

“They were bad people,” says Nathan.

“This week. This week _alone._ If we’re going to work our way back, I think my kill quotient might qualify me as a virus.”

“I don’t know what to say,” says Nathan, and a muscle works in his neck. He looks at Wade, then away. “How to explain.”

Wade closes his eyes. He never got the chance to be a dad, so what the fuck does he know. But since when has ignorance ever kept him from running at the mouth?

“The first bit,” he says. “Just the first sentence. Write that.”

Nathan’s fingers tighten on the pen. “It doesn’t seem like enough.”

“Trust me,” Wade says, “as someone who never got to hear it from a dad, it’s enough.”

That earns him a sharp look.

“I’m fucked up,” says Wade, with a self-deprecating smile. “In all sorts of ways you haven’t even discovered yet.”

Nathan shakes his head. “How are we even going to get this to her?”

“You have a government? People you trust?” Wade shrugs. “Address it to them. Include instructions not to give it to Hope until she’s like… ten or something. Then give it to Domino. She’ll find a lucky place to bury it.”

Nathan exhales. That’s his _I’m reluctantly impressed_ sound. “You’ve thought this through.”

“I’ve thought through a lot of contingencies,” says Wade. “What to do in case of zombies. If I’m sent back in time and meet a dashing world war one soldier. If the reapers really are coming. If Weasel got superpowers, tried to take over the world.”

Nathan twitches. “I don’t even want to know.”

“Still not sure if I’d join forces with him or not, to be honest.”

There is quiet for a few minutes, as Nathan writes down a few lines. He nods, seemingly satisfied, before folding the paper and slipping into his bag. There’s a tautness to his mouth, as if he’s working up the nerve to say something. 

Then he looks at Wade. “For the record, we do have cookies in the future."

“I knew you were reading my texts.” 

* * *

They’re trapped in a vault with a ticking bomb.

“Knew this job was too good to be true,” Wade mutters, as he cracks open the bomb’s casing. He pitches his voice to imitate Weasel. “‘Sean Connery type left a card for you. A little blackmail, nothing too hard.’ Well, let me tell you, once we get out of here I am going to find Mr. Bond and show him how I live and let die.” His mouth is on autopilot, a jumble of pop culture references and curses. Nathan ignores him, his metal fingers surprisingly delicate as he teases wires apart, searching for something. His arm lights up, and a countdown appears in midair.

“Oh my god,” says Wade. “You’ve been holding out on me! It’s a projector, too?”

Nathan’s eyes narrow. “We’ve got thirty seconds.” He casts about, looking for something. “We need to get to a corner, brace ourselves. My shield will hold against shrapnel, but the kinetic force—”

“You do that,” says Wade, glancing back down at the wires. “And I’ll see if I can stop this thing.”

Nathan growls. “Wade—”

“I’m fine!”

“Get behind me,” says Nathan, which is possibly the most idiotic thing the man has ever said. His face is steely, mouth pulled into a snarl.

“Pop quiz, can you regrow body parts?” says Wade. “Answers are, A: No, and B: Fuck no. So you’ll excuse me if I don’t leap behind your—”

The bomb goes off.

* * *

He wakes buried beneath about two feet of rubble. Wonders why he hasn’t walked this one off yet. All of his limbs are attached—a minor miracle. Then he sees the rebar sticking through his chest, pinning him place. Agony sets his lungs afire as his body struggles to heal around the metal. He can’t even breathe properly and not for the first time, he considers the fact that death can be a fucking mercy.

He isn’t sure how long it takes for Nathan to get to him. One moment, Wade is lying there, contemplating the taste of blood and drywall in his mouth—still better than the last Oreo flavor—and then the wreckage shifts. A wall panel lifts away and Nathan is there—hair white with plaster, blood creased in the scars around his eye, metal arm straining against the weight of what looks to be half a building. With a snarl, Nathan shoves the blockage aside, and then he’s beside Wade. He looks down at him, and there’s a small rumble in his chest. The sound is a tangle of fury and helplessness, and Wade’s heard that particular intonation only once before.

_Until one day he kills the wrong fucking people. My people._

Wade isn’t quite sure when he qualified as one of Nathan’s people. It’s something of a revelation.

“This is going to hurt,” rasps Nathan, as he reaches for the rebar.

Wade coughs out a laugh. “Just how I like it.”

When they get back to the apartment, Nathan deposits him the bathtub. There’s no saving his clothes, so they’re cut away and tossed in a trash bag. Hot water hurts like a mother until it washes away the dust and blood. Wade sits there, watching as flesh repairs itself, bones knit together, and every breath comes a little easier. He expected Nathan to retreat after getting him out of his suit, but he only vanished for a moment before reappearing with a bottled water and two codeine.

“That’s it?” Wade says. “Why not just get the kid’s Tylenol why you’re at it?”

Nathan holds out the bottle. “I am not dealing with an overdose on top of watching you cough up part of your fucking lung.”

“Is that what that was?”

When he’s no longer leaking various bodily fluids, Wade lifts himself up and out of the tub. He half-expects Nathan to turn away—it’s not a pretty sight. But the other man merely holds out a clean towel.

Once Wade’s in bed, curled around a plush unicorn and breathing a little easier—his lung must have repaired itself—he listens to Nathan shower. The sounds of splashing water and the rhythmic groan of the water heater lull him into a half-sleep. When the water shuts off and footsteps pad into the bedroom, Wade half-expects to hear that irritated huff of breath and the sound of Nathan leaving again.

Rather, the bed dips. There’s a light touch along his side—and when he opens his eyes, he sees Nathan peering down at him. “Never expected you to be the type to try and cop a feel when your buddy’s half-dead.”

“You’re not half dead.” Nathan’s fingers make a pass over his ribs. “A quarter, at the most. Your ribs feel healed.”

“Told you I’d be fine.”

Nathan’s lips press tight. “You were not fine,” he says. “You were pinned and choking on your own blood, asshole. You could have been blown apart and left there, in pieces, forever. Did that even occur to you?”

Only Nathan could make profanity sound like endearment.

Wade reaches up and pats Nathan on the chest. His shirt is still damp and warm—Nathan must have simply pulled it on after his shower, barely bothering with a towel. His hair is rumbled, and there’s a hint of shadow along his jaw. He looks undone and gorgeous. “You were there,” Wade says, closing his eyes again. “‘Wasn’t worried.”

Nathan draws in a small, sharp breath.

“Now,” says Wade, cracking one eye open. “I do have a question for you. That arm of yours—can it project movies?”

* * *

It happens when they’re making breakfast.

Or rather, Nathan is making breakfast while Wade sits on the counter, wearing a My Little Pony apron and stealing bites of strawberries before Nathan can slip them into the blender.

“You would be the protein shake kind of guy,” says Wade. “What, is chewing your own food not manly enough? Gotta put some powdered bones in there, add a few scoops of—”

And then Nathan is there, close, thighs bracketing Wade in. He smells like laundry detergent and he hasn’t shaved yet. “Do you ever stop talking?” he says, and there’s a simmering heat beneath the words.

“I sleep.”

“Yes, and I’ve heard you talk then, too.” Nathan’s hands are on his arms and fuck, fuck, fuck, this is really happening. It isn’t a fever dream or a fantasy that Wade’s concocted for his own pleasure.

“Admit it, you like my mouth,” says Wade.

Nathan’s eyes flick down to his lips then up again. His metal fingers curl around the nape of Wade’s neck and then he’s kissing him.

Nathan kisses like he’s trying to pry Wade open, to tease apart the layers of jokes and pop culture references. And god, in that moment, Wade would give him anything. Nathan tastes like coffee and there’s the rough edge of his unshaven jaw, and then Wade’s fingers are knotted in his shirt, pulling him closer. A low sound rumbles in Nathan’s chest. So that’s what he sounds like when he’s turned on. Wade tucks that knowledge away for future use.

When Nathan pulls back, Wade says, a little smugly, “You love it. All the talking. The aprons, the Ikea furniture, the dick-shaped pancakes. Me.”

Nathan grumbles, but there’s a softness to it—and Wade knows him well enough to hear, _Yes._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t intending to write any more, but I did have some deleted bits from Nathan’s perspective that I decided to cobble together into a second chapter.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your kind words & support!

This was not supposed to happen.

Either Nathan would kill Russell Collins and return home—or he would die trying. It wasn’t a good plan, but very few good plans are concocted when the ashes of a person’s loved ones linger on their fingertips.

That plan did not account for Wade.

Nathan thinks no one can ever truly account for Wade Wilson.

When the other man offers him a place to stay, he accepts out of sheer practicality. The sad truth is, Nathan has no place to go—his home will not be built for decades, his wife has not yet been born, and his world has yet to rise from the ashes of this one. Which is how he finds himself on a rusted couch, drinking beer, staring down at an assortment of boxes. The scent of food has his stomach cramping with hunger, but he still makes no move to reach for it. He’s dehydrated, exhausted, running on adrenaline and reflexes. To eat, to sleep, to settle in—it feels like acceptance.

He’ll never see his family again.

And he knows he made the right decision. He could have gone back, yes. But he wouldn’t have been the kind of father Hope deserves. She should have a father who would save a good man’s life.

Because that’s what Wade Wilson has turned out to be—a good man. As much as he pretends not to be.

And now that man is sitting beside him, inhaling food at an alarming rate, encouraging him to eat pizza.

The world is a very strange place sometimes.

Nathan picks up a slice of pizza. He can practically feel Wade vibrating with eagerness beside him. “What is this?”

“Pineapple and olive,” says Wilson cheerily. The way he says it, there’s a bit of laughter bubbling beneath the surface. As if the toppings are a joke that’s been uttered so many times, the punchline no longer needs to be said aloud. Nathan merely shakes his head and takes another bite.

He does need to eat. If he’s going to change things—if he’s going to make a better world—then he needs to be smart about this. He’ll need sustenance, a place to stay.

He glances over at Wilson, who has begun flicking through the tv channels. Wilson’s always smiling, mouth overflowing with crude jokes and curses, but they’re as much a mask as the red one. Nathan knows a bit about anger, about helplessness, and about pain. Wade is familiar with all three, and it shows. He fights with reckless abandon, all quips and whirling blades. In Nathan’s experience, the only fighters who give no thought to defense are either insane or suicidal—and Wade seems well on his way to both.

But that’s not the worst part about Wade. The part that makes Nathan want to snarl and put a few bullets in Wade, is his unwavering _certainty._ Not in his guns or his skill—but in the people around him. Wade believed wholeheartedly that Russell wouldn’t become a killer, believed it strongly enough to take a bullet. A kid he barely knew, and Wade was sure about him.

That kind of unwavering belief—Nathan’s never had that. And he’s not sure if he envies Wilson or not.

* * *

Domino finds the apartment. Which is why Nathan lets Wade walk in first.

If Domino has the place rigged, Nathan wants enough time to react. He can call up his shield in a fraction of a moment, and even if Wilson ends up injured—it’s not like an explosion could truly kill him. The other man is chatting excitedly, going on about rent control and there’s mention of piranha as a security measure, but honestly, Nathan is only half listening.

Nothing happens. Except Wade turning around and asking if Nathan needs to be invited in like a vampire.

He steps over the threshold with care, his eyes roaming over the empty space.

When a person grows up amidst a war, every room looks like a battlefield.

Nathan’s mind is constantly at work looking for exit strategies, stray objects that can be used as weapons or cover, people that will end up as allies or enemies. He can’t turn that part of his brain off—even if part of him wishes he could.

“—Two bedrooms,” Wade is saying. “One’s a little bigger, but it’s farther from the bathroom. How’s your bladder control?”

Nathan grunts. Such a question doesn’t merit a true reply. “I can take the smaller one,” he says. “I don’t need much space.”

All Nathan needs a safe place, weapons, and information. The rest is negotiable.

“All right.” Wade grins at him. “Let’s hit Ikea.”

“What is that?”

Wade’s grin widens, and something about it sets Nathan’s nerves on edge.

* * *

Ikea is… well. Ikea is everything that this century claimed to be. An excess of leather and plastic, bodies and chatter. Nathan watches the rows of furniture with his mouth pressed into a line, disapproval all over his face. Wade ignores him, writing down numbers for an entertainment center and asking if Nathan prefers rugs or hardwood floors.

A family wanders by, with several younger children. They can’t be older than eight or nine. The stark overhead lights catch on a girl’s blonde hair and something inside Nathan’s chest threatens to tear open.

There are ways to keep one’s self sane on long-term missions. And that’s how he has to think of this—as a long term mission rather than a whole new life. If he considers the rest of his life, he’ll drown. He has to focus, to concentrate on one moment after the next, after the next.

He’s here. He’s going to change things.

And when Wade Wilson tries to convince him that bunk beds are a good idea, Nathan resists the urge to stick another knife into him.

After the nightmare that is Ikea, Nathan ends up putting the furniture together. All it takes is Wade holding up a small metal tool and saying, “Wanna screw?” before Nathan shoves him out the door and tells him to find food. Locating food is something Wade is rather good at. So Nathan kneels beside cardboard boxes and puts together a love seat (red, as Wade insisted), a table set, and two bed frames. There are blankets and toothbrushes, a television and bookshelf, and a stuffed unicorn, of all things. The apartment is a little too dark—no wall of windows overlooking a city—and he can’t help but reach for the teddy bear sitting a few feet away. For all that the apartment is fine, it isn’t _his_ , and _god_ , all he wants to do is reach a few years into the future and see his family again, tell them he’s all right.

By the time Wade comes back, Nathan is installing their magnetic knife holder above the stove.

“Is that a boning knife or are you just happy to see me?” Wade quips, as he sets the paper bag down.

Nathan considers the angle and strength necessary to flick the knife into Wade’s eye. Then he closes his own eyes and breathes.

He’s on edge. The _newness_ of this place, of these surroundings, of this world. It’s rubbed him raw.

“There’s a Vietnamese place a few blocks away,” Wade says, setting a bag down on the counter. “They say they don’t deliver, but I bet if you glared at them hard enough, they might make an exception.”

Nathan levels a stare at him.

“That’s the look,” says Wade. “You aren’t allergic to anything, are you?”

“No.”

“Good, because there are a shit ton of peanuts in this bag.” Wade reaches inside. “Papaya salad with poached shrimp? Or are you a charbroiled beef kind of man? Because you look like someone who might be exclusively on a red meat diet.”

Nathan grunts. For a moment, he considers explaining exactly how big agriculture fucked the world over with emissions of CO2, how crops failed as the temperatures changed, how drought and fires raged one half of the country while massive storms pounded the rest. For those who cannot keep chickens or a few farm animals, meat is a luxury. Legumes are the cheapest and easiest source of protein.

Nathan lets the lecture slip away; there’s a time and a place. Wade is setting out the boxes of food, smiling and humming to himself. It should be irritating, but the sound calms Nathan. It helps fill up the empty spaces in the apartment. Wade puts something on the tv—a competition where people run through complicated mazes and foam obstacles. Wade shakes his head, offering a profanity-laced commentary as Nathan half-listens. The food is delicious—thinly sliced beef with lemon and basil, red onions and fried shallots.

That evening, Nathan eases into his newly constructed bed. His room is spartan; he doesn’t give a damn about furnishings, and his bedside table holds the only thing of value. The teddy bear slumps in on itself and Nathan’s gaze remains on it until he falls asleep.

* * *

Around three, a nightmare wakes him.

Surprisingly enough, it isn’t his. The walls are thin enough that Nathan can hear Wade’s gasp, the name he utters.

“Ness?”

And then silence.

Nathan does not sit up, but he listens. Waits to see if perhaps Wade will do something. But there’s nothing.

Nathan reaches out, his callused fingers catching in the teddy bear’s soft fur. Safe, he tells himself. His family is safe.

Turns out, he’s the lucky one.

* * *

There is only one picture of Wade in the apartment. Its edges are burnt from the explosion and it still smells of fuel. Nathan finds it when he’s cleaning the living room.

The picture shows a young man, grinning at the camera. His features are sharp, attractive, and the smile is one of utter confidence. It takes Nathan a heartbeat to see the single crooked tooth and the color of his eyes. It’s Wade.

He looks up to find Wade watching him. “If you want to stare at it while you jack off, I’ll leave the room.”

Nathan throws the picture at him. Wade catches it between two fingers. “That’s not what I was thinking, perv,” says Nathan.

“I wouldn’t blame you. I was quite the looker.” Wade tucks the picture into his pocket.

“I thought your skin was because of your healing.” No matter how powerful a person is, how good their ability to heal, the body is never quite the same. Tissues and skin can knit together, but there will always be scar tissue. “I’ve never seen scars like that.” Nathan nods at one of Wade’s hands. “Burns?”

Wade gives him a lopsided grin. “Nope. I got put in a decompression chamber and left to slowly suffocate for a weekend. My super powers decided to make an appearance, if only to make it stop.”

Nathan’s lungs tighten with a sympathetic twinge. “Fucking hell.”

“That’s what it felt like.”

Of all the ways to hurt someone, suffocation is one of the most efficient. It can scar the mind as easily as a beating can damage the body. And not for the first time, Nathan wonders what kind of man Wade was before he became… this.

That night, he does a bit of research. (All right, so he steals Wade’s laptop but the other man is at the bar, so it’s not as if he’ll notice.) The internet provides a window into Wade Wilson’s previous life: his dismissal from the special forces (dishonorable discharge), a few classified records of missions (forty-one confirmed kills), a couple of police reports (one broken taillight and one incident of Wade driving a golf cart down a freeway), and a few scattered social media profiles. A video game profile and several playlists of terrible music. Nathan’s about to close down the search when he discovers something else.

It’s an online registry on one of those mega-corporations. It’s set up under a pseudonym—LockNessMonster69. There are the usual items: a bath towel, some jewelry, and a baby’s onesie meant to look like a frog—

The thought clicks into place.

Shit.

_Shit._

This is one thing Wade has never talked about—his girlfriend. Nathan catches glimpses of her sometimes, in the way Wade will stumble over a story as he omits a name or his fingers linger too long on something sharp. Nathan has the story—he got it out of Weasel with little more than a sharp look—but he has never asked Wade about it. There are some wounds that should be left to heal.

* * *

Wade begins taking jobs a few weeks after they move in together.

It’s small stuff—a contract killing here, a bodyguard job there—and at first, Nathan’s a bit thrown. He thought Wade might have gone to the X-Men and worked with them. But when he brings up the subject, Wade laughs so hard that he chokes on the pancake he’s eating. “Soap dispenser,” is the only explanation that emerges during the coughing fit. Nathan shakes his head and lets that subject drop.

Nathan has his own job. He’s neck-deep in articles about climate change policy.

“Captain Planet?” says Wade, when he glances over Nathan’s shoulder. Wade looks unharmed—there’s no bullet holes in his suit, at least. “Really? That’s how you’re going to save the world? Tell people to recycle? Start a neighborhood garden?”

“I’m going to kill any politician that tries to leave the Paris Agreement.”

Wade goes still. Tilts his head to one side. Opens his mouth, then closes it again. “You do know…? Actually you know what? Please do. That might avert your shitty future by itself.” He sets his katanas on the coffee table before sauntering toward the bathroom. “In the meantime, though, some of us have to pay the rent. I’m going to shower and see Weasel. You should probably stay home—Dopinder’s cleaned enough piss from the floors.”

Nathan grunts but doesn’t reply. He has more articles to read.

Time passes, as it always does. There are decent moments—Nathan enjoys those stupid television competitions that Wade always finds, even if he would never say so aloud. The food is good. And Nathan has a list of names: a few from history books, a few from the news. Some can be bribed, some can be threatened, others will vanish.

Nathan flexes his left hand. It’s time to get to work.

* * *

One day, Nathan comes home to find a spruce tree branch covered in body glitter, sitting in a mason jar.

It’s odd. But on Wade’s Scale of Doing Weird Shit, it barely registers.

(For the record, a one on that scale is finding Wade sharpening their cream cheese spreader. An eight is finding a hostage dressed like a Thanksgiving turkey in the living room. A ten… well so far Nathan hasn’t seen a ten and he’s pretty sure he never wants to.)

“What is this?” he asks, jerking his head at the glittery foliage.

Wade looks up from his phone. “Christmas tree.”

Well. That would explain why every store front Nathan passed has decorations in its windows.

“I probably won’t be in town for Christmas,” says Wade, distractedly typing into his phone. “Busy time of the year and all. Pay and a half. Millionaires to dismember. But I thought you might enjoy it.”

It’s… weird. And a little thoughtful.

Wade strolls out of the apartment, waving a loaded semi-automatic in farewell. Nathan watches him go, then shakes his head.

Christmas. Gifts and all. He’s never been one for holidays, but he always liked seeing Hope enjoy it. Even when she woke them up at five in the morning, clamoring into their bed and begging for her gift. He remembers her holding a new teddy bear, grinning up at him, fingers digging into the brown fur.

Nathan closes his eyes and breathes. It’s all he can do.

He glances at the small tree branch and says, “Fuck it.”

After all, he does have someone in his life who might appreciate a gift. And if Wade wants one thing, Nathan knows what it would be.

Nathan’s gun is tucked beneath his bed. He’s seen the way Wade looks at the weapon: as if he wants to eat it or mastrubate with it and hasn’t decided which. Nathan can build or rebuild a weapon with barely a thought—it’s all muscle memory. Something to do with his hands, something to settle his thoughts. He sketches out the idea for a smaller version of his own weapon. Then he considers what Wade might do with such a gun. So he removes the kinetic cannon. And the grenade launcher. And every other dial until all he has is a small, reliable firearm.

It’s still better than those other guns Wade totes around. And there is a small grenade tucked into the handle—if Wade can ever find it.

As he works, his phone beeps. It’s Wade—it’s always Wade. Random updates on his jobs, pictures of coffee shop walls, and general ramblings. At first, Nathan silenced his phone. But then the apartment grew a little too quiet, a little too empty. So now he listens for the beeps and glances over Wade’s messages. He’ll admit that he misses Wade’s chatter, because it helps keeps Nathan’s own thoughts at bay.

* * *

Domino stops by the apartment a few days before Christmas. “Wade still on his job?”

Nathan nods. He steps aside to let the younger woman inside, and she walks toward the kitchen.

He’s glad she feels comfortable enough to be here. The memory of how they met—well, it’s not one he’s proud of. He wouldn’t blame her if she greeted him with a cocked gun. But the one time he brought it up, Domino simply shrugged and said, “Comes with mercenary work. If I killed everyone that pointed a weapon at me, I’d have no friends.”

Now, she settles on a barstool and cracks open a beer. “I was hoping he’d be back.”

Nathan leans on the counter. “You need something?”

“Bit of blackmail retrieval,” says Domino. “A woman’s boyfriend is threatening to release naked pictures of her on the internet. She’s in a corporate job, so it wouldn’t end well for her.”

Nathan frowns. “Surely her employers can’t blame her for that.”

“You’d be surprised.” She takes a long drag of her beer. “So they don’t have that in future? Revenge porn?”

“People are still assholes,” he replies. “But, no. Survival rates a little higher on our priorities than naked pictures.”

“Well, that’s something to look forward to.” She taps the beer bottle with a painted nail. “Wade’s usually good for this kind of thing.”

“You need someone to kill him?”

“Actually, I need a distraction while I break into his place and fuck with his computer.” She shrugs. “As for online back-ups… well, passwords be broken.”

This isn’t Nathan’s kind of mission. But then again, he’s spent a week researching greenhouse gases and building a gun—surely going outside is a good thing.

“I’ll do it,” he says, and Domino blinks.

“You do realize the woman doesn’t actually want her ex dead?” She finishes off the beer. “This is blackmail, not a killing offense.”

“I can complete a job without killing someone,” says Nathan.

Domino raises her eyebrows in silent question.

Which is how Nathan ends up in a car, sitting in the passenger’s seat while Domino flicks through radio channels. They’re outside an apartment complex, waiting for their mark to leave the building. Her car is small but clean, and there are plush dice dangling from the mirror. “How do we know he’s not in for the night?” asks Nathan.

“Lucky guess.”

Domino leans back in her seat, leg twitching.

“So what’s your real name?” she asks.

“My name?” he repeats, if only to stall for time.

“You aren’t on the lease as ‘Cable,’ I assume.”

“I’m not on the lease, at all.” He continues to stare at the apartment building. “Does it matter?”

She flicks the plush dice. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Your intentions.” She shrugs one shoulder. “If you’re going to slip away into the night and go off to save the world, then it doesn’t matter. Or if you return to the future.”

“I can’t.”

She leans back in her chair, settling comfortably into the fake leather. “I get it. I didn’t age out of the system—I left when I was sixteen. Couldn’t tell anyone my name because I thought the cops would find me. Had a few aliases before I settled on Domino. But the thing is, it’s hard to settle in a place if no one really knows who you are.”

“And you are?” he says, eyes narrowing.

“Neena Thurman.” The corners of her mouth twitch. “Pleased to meet you.”

He doesn’t answer, not at first. Because she is right. He hasn’t told anyone who he truly is—not his name, his occupation, his abilities—because part of him is still clinging to his past. Their future. Whatever.

But he’s here. And if he’s going to change the world, he needs allies.

“Nathan Summers,” he says.

“Really?” She slides him a look. “It’s so… twenty-first century. I thought it’d be something like Zapp Brannigan.”

She’s referencing something, he’s sure. But before he can ask, she bolts upright, her fingers flexing for a gun she isn’t wearing. “There he is.”

A man is striding through the glass doors. His hair is swept to one side, and he wears an artfully ripped jacket. Nathan would comment on how destroyed clothing is only fashionable when intact clothing is available, but Neena is unlocking her car doors. “Okay. Here’s the plan. I’m going in. You keep watch. If he tries to go back inside, do something.”

“What am I supposed to do? Hit him with the car?”

“No,” says Neena. “I just touched up the paint. Just—I don’t know. Figure it out.” She slips from the car, moving into the shadows. She moves like a predator, all stealth and confidence, but even as she walks toward the emergency fire stairs, something seems to tug his gaze away. It isn’t that he _can’t_ see her, it’s that he doesn’t _want_ to.

Damn. He’s not sure exactly what her powers are—probability, perhaps—but if he could find a way to _weaponize_ it—

No. He has a perv to distract; he can contemplate his plans afterward.

Nathan frowns as the man strolls down the sidewalk, stopping by a food truck. He isn’t sure how long the man will be out, and if it’ll be long enough for Neena to find the pictures in question. 

The man seems to be having some kind of argument with the truck driver. “—Smell them all the way up there,” he’s saying. “Just go to another block.”

The truck driver says something in reply, but Nathan doesn’t hear it. The man waves his arm in a furious gesture, then turns on his heel, walking back toward the apartment building.

Damn. Nathan glances down at the gun he tucked into the glove compartment. So fucking tempting.

He closes his eyes. Then he reopens them and glances back at the street. His gaze settles on a fire hydrant.

Fifteen minutes later, Neena strolls back to the car. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles glitter on her bracelets as she settles in the driver’s seat. She gives him a flat stare.

“I didn’t hit him with the car,” says Nathan.

“What’s with the water?”

“Fire hydrant exploded. Freak accident.”

She quirks a brow.

“That’s what it’ll look like,” replies Nathan.

She huffs out a laugh, twisting her key in the ignition. “Why’s he sitting in the back of an ambulance?”

“Looked like he broke an arm when the water hit him. Slammed him into a food truck.” Nathan shrugs. “He’s not dead. And maybe the broken arm will keep him from taking pictures of women for a while.”

Neena breaks into a full-on grin, shaking her head with rueful amusement.

She drops him back at the apartment and Nathan walks up the stairs by himself. There are no sounds from beyond the front door, meaning Wade isn’t back yet. And perhaps he should be glad of the quiet, but there’s something empty in it.

He goes to the small Christmas tree. Nathan picks up his gift, a breath escaping him as he reaches for a pen.

_From Nathan._

* * *

The new time capsule is placed on his bedside table.

For a few minutes, Nathan simply stares at it. It’s such a small thing, yet the gift hit him like a strike to the throat. For a few moments, he could barely breathe. And now he can leave a message. He can tell Hope why he left her, why he left his wife, what mattered so much that he would abandon his life—

_It was for you. It was always for you._

He swallows hard. Because words have never been his strength. He doesn’t know how to put them into a letter, how to explain in a way that won’t sound trite or cold. He’s not sure he can explain, not in a way that makes sense. If he’d gone back to them, he wouldn’t have been the kind of person they needed. He wouldn’t have deserved them—he’d have been a cold bastard, trading a life for his own happiness. And Wade—

He shakes his head and goes to the kitchen for a glass of water.

It’s a little after two in the morning. The brandy bottle is empty and Wade is asleep on the couch.

Nathan slips a glass from the cupboard when he hears the murmur. The syllables are gummy and ill-formed. “Sorry,” Wade is mumbling in his sleep. “S’sorry. Can’t—“

Nathan considers getting his water and leaving Wade to it—he wouldn’t want his own dreams eavesdropped on. But then again—

He drops onto the couch. Hard enough to make Wade jerk away, eyes flying open. “Wha—”

“You talk in your sleep,” says Nathan.

Wade blinks owlishly. “I do a lot of things in my sleep."

“I don’t want to know.” 

“Where’s Dom?”

“Headed out a while ago. What were you drinking?”

“Brandy.” A pause. “Mixed with a few other things.” Another pause. “Hey, you try getting drunk when your body can heal anything.”

“Wasn’t judging.” Nathan takes a sip of his water.

Wade squints at him. “What was I saying? Because if it was ‘Cable,’ I was probably just bitching out our Comcast bill.”

That makes Nathan laugh—just a little. The corner of Wade’s mouth twitches.

“Speaking of,” says Wade, “I’ll stop by tomorrow and pick up payment from Weasel. That way we can afford rent and Food Network this month. Yay for us.”

“Job went well?”

Wade’s smile sharpens. “One less abusive fucker in the world. I should have my name written up on a tower, like the Avengers do.” The words are punctuated with a small flex of his index finger, as if pulling the trigger of an invisible gun.

That’s the thing. Wade never seems to take on jobs unless they involve utter assholes. It’s taken Nathan a few months, but he sees the pattern: those who hurt other people are fair game in Wade’s eyes. And those who hurt children can kiss their asses goodbye. It’s probably a good thing that the first time they fought, Wade was collared and half-dead of cancer. For all that he’s a wildcard, Wade’s a talented fighter. And he’s more than willing to kill himself to end his opponent. After all, in his own mind, he's got nothing to lose.

In his own small way, Wade’s making the world a better place.

“When’s your next job?” asks Nathan.

“Don’t know.” Wade leans back, resting his head on the arm of the love seat. He wedges his ice-cold toes beneath Nathan’s leg and Nathan twitches but doesn’t retaliate. “I’ll talk to Weasel in a few days. See if anything’s come up.”

Nathan hesitates. He’s got his own job—but this. This is worth doing.

“Tell me,” says Nathan. “Maybe I’ll come along.”

* * *

They begin traveling together.

And perhaps Nathan should hate it—he should find Wade’s chatter irritating, he should be offended at the lewd suggestions, he should be off saving the world. But rather, the chatter fills up the empty spaces when Nathan’s mind begins to wander; the perverted come-ons only make him huff with laughter; and it’s pretty hard to say he isn’t saving the world when they break a trafficking ring and a small child latches onto Nathan’s shoulders and holds on until they get to a police station.

They’re doing good. And with every day that passes, things become easier.

He loves his family—he’ll always love them. But they’re no longer a heavy weight in his chest, the grief a constant burden. They’re the reason he stayed, to make things better. And he will. He _is_.

As for Wade, he seems happier with someone along.

“I needed a sidekick,” he says, when they come home from their latest job.

“Call me that again, and I’ll kick you in the side.”

“Dopinder was pretty good at driving the getaway car, but with you around I don’t even need the getaway car. There’s no one to get away from. Not unless zombies become a problem.” Wade squints. “They don’t become a problem, do they? Because if I need to start stockpiling pop tarts—”

Nathan’s laugh is more of a snort. “Go ahead and start stockpiling. Those things will never mold. Might as well have a supply on hand for when the world goes to hell.”

Wade puts a hand over his heart. “You wound me, sir. It almost sounds as if you’re insulting my favorite breakfast food.”

“I’ll try to be more blunt then.”

They get Vietnamese delivered—turns out, all it required was a small bribe and a promise of good tips. The rest of the evening is spent watching the news—all right, so Nathan watches and Wade provides a running commentary—and eating grilled beef with rice noodles and lime garlic sauce. At some point, Wade’s feet end up tucked beneath Nathan’s leg (“Cold toes”) and Nathan doesn’t mind. It’s companionable and familiar—even when Nathan falls asleep on the couch and Wade spends a week calling him an old man.

It’s not a bad life. And it’s more than Nathan ever thought he’d have.

* * *

He realizes how deep he’s in when Wade gets himself blown up.

It’s a stupidly easy job, and that should have been the first giveaway. The ticking bomb is the second.

Wade is blithely chipper about the bomb, trying to diffuse it despite Nathan snarling at him to get behind him. His shield can protect them both, will keep them safe. But the explosion goes off early.

Nathan wakes with drywall in his hair and the familiar pain of cracked ribs. He hauls himself upright, winces, and surveys the room before him. There’s fire licking along the floor, concrete blown apart, and—Wade.

Wade at the center of it all, rebar through his chest and eyes wide open. He gasps, a sickening wetness in that breath, and then Wade’s eyes flicker closed. “You idiot,” rasps Nathan, reaching for the rebar. Wade’s pierced through in several places, the metal warped and twisted. Wade’s finger’s twitch, as if grasping for something, and then they go still.

Wade dies. Nathan’s seen him die before, but he’s never watched it happen again and again. His lungs fill with blood and he drowns in it, only to awaken a moment afterward. Wade is drowning and Nathan’s too goddamn slow to protect him and—

His hands are shaking. There’s smoke in the air and blood in his mouth and building is creaking as if it still might come down on them both.

_Get it the fuck together._

He manages to pull Wade free, and the other man slumps against him, dampening Nathan’s shirt. There’s not enough light, no way to examine the damage. And those fuckers that lured them here might still be outside, sniper rifles at the ready.

They have to leave, _now_. So Nathan heaves Wade’s arm across his shoulders, half-dragging and half-carrying him through the wreckage. Their car is waiting at the curb, and it’s going to have to be reupholstered—if not simply abandoned. Wade’s head lolls against Nathan’s shoulder and Nathan leaves it there, if only so he can monitor Wade’s breathing. There’s a wet hitch that he doesn’t like, and halfway home, Wade _convulses._ Nathan swears and almost veers into oncoming traffic, but manages to keep it together. He sees Wade coughing, hacking, and then something wet and spongey lands on the dashboard.

They are definitely abandoning the car.

And possibly setting it on fire.

When they get home, Nathan has to cut the melted clothes from Wade’s body. It’s not an easy process, as some of the metal has attached itself into reforming flesh. When he’s finished, Nathan shoves Wade in the bathtub and turns on the shower. Wade groans and rolls over, trying to block the stream with one hand. “Stop bitching,” says Nathan wearily. He pushes himself upright, leaving Wade to mutter curses. He goes for painkillers and water, and he takes a few moments in the kitchen.

He needs to breathe.

He places his hands on the counter, closes his eyes, and tries not to see Wade in the darkness. He can’t do this again. He can’t lose another person he cares about. It will break him.

And that’s when he realizes he’s in love with Wade Wilson. An idiot who doesn’t have the good sense to get behind a barrier when there is a bomb about to go off, who likes pop tarts but only those with frosting because the other kind is too dry, who makes a living ridding the world of assholes, who smiles and laughs when he’s awake but always apologizes in his sleep, who moved in with a wreck of a soldier simply because Nathan had no other place to go.

“Fuck it,” Nathan mutters, and takes two painkillers from the bottle.

Wade looks better. His skin is regrown, and his mashed-in ribs are beginning to fix themselves. The bathtub is still pink with blood, but that can be washed out. Wade looks down at the proffered painkillers and says, “That’s it? Why not just get the kid’s Tylenol why you’re at it?”

His words send a wave of relief through Nathan. Because if Wade is well enough to complain, he’s on the mend.

“I am not dealing with an overdose on top of watching you cough up part of your fucking lung.”

“Is that what that was?” Wade rises unsteadily, but he manages. Nathan digs a towel out from under the sink and holds it out. Wade blinks, seemingly surprised, but he doesn’t comment.

Once Wade is in bed, Nathan returns to the bathroom. He sees the streaks of dirt and blood and closes his eyes. It’s not the charred remnants of his nightmares, but it’s yet another place he’ll have trouble seeing for a while. He scrubs the floor clean first, tossing the dirty rags in the trash before stripping off his own clothes. His ribs ache, but they’ll heal. His eardrums are intact and as long as nothing gets infected, he’ll be fine. He stands in the shower, pulling bits of rubble from his metal arm, and finally manages to feel a fraction of calm.

Everything will be fine. Wade is fine. Their apartment is safe. And later, Nathan is going to hunt down the person who lured them into that trap.

Clean and dressed, Nathan walks into Wade’s bedroom. The other man is curled on his side, spooning a stuffed unicorn. Nathan sits on the edge of the bed, surveying the damage. The ribs seem to be fine—nothing poking through the skin, and Wade is breathing well.

Before he can stop himself, Nathan touches him. It’s a clinical little sweep to check how Wade’s ribs are healing—one that becomes less clinical when his fingertips remain there.

Wade cracks an eye open. “Never expected you to be the type to try and cop a feel when your buddy’s half-dead.”

Nathan cocks his head. “You’re not half dead. A quarter, at the most. Your ribs feel healed.”

“Told you I’d be fine.”

Nathan bites the urge to snarl. Of course Wade wouldn’t take this seriously—he didn’t have to see the picture he made, splayed out and broken. “You were not fine,” he says. “You were pinned and choking on your own blood, asshole. You could have been blown apart and left there, in pieces, forever. Did that even occur to you?”

Of course it hadn’t. Because the dumbass somehow seems to think he doesn’t matter, that—

Wade reaches up and pats Nathan on the chest. “You were there,” Wade says, closing his eyes. “Wasn’t worried.”

It isn’t the words so much as the way Wade says them: with that same that surety that made Nathan want to put a few bullets in him when they first met. Wade trusts in people—albeit only a few people. It makes Nathan want to shake him, to tell him that he shouldn’t trust people because people are pretty fucking terrible.

And it makes Nathan want to be the kind of person who deserves such trust.

* * *

It happens when he’s making breakfast, when Wade’s running at the mouth and there is sunlight streaming through the windows. Nathan is cutting strawberries for a smoothie and Wade’s saying something about gelatin and bones, and it’s all so normal. 

It’s home. 

Nathan’s home—and the person who made it a home is sitting on the counter, eating a strawberry he stole from the blender. 

Nathan steps closer, crossing the line from friendly to something far more intimate. It’s a deliberate little gesture, and he waits to see if Wade will recoil. If he looks at all uncomfortable, Nathan will step back. But Wade’s pupils flicker wide, and Nathan can see the way Wade’s eyes fall to Nathan’s mouth and away. 

“Do you ever stop talking?” Nathan says, but he says it fondly. 

“I sleep.”

“Yes, and I’ve heard you talk then, too.” Nathan touches Wade’s arms. He waits to see if Wade will flinch; the metal hand tends to be rather cold. But Wade doesn’t even seem to notice. 

“Admit it, you like my mouth,” says Wade.

He does. 

Turns out, the best way to silence Wade is to kiss him.

It’s the only time Wade’s tongue has better things to do—and fuck, if that thought doesn’t conjure all sorts of mental images. Wade curls around him, affectionate and unashamed of needing the physical contact. For a first kiss, it’s surprisingly calm. None of the fumbling nor the furious desire he might have expected—merely his hand curling around the nape of Wade’s neck and Wade’s fingers tight on his shirt, pulling him closer. It’s the kind of kiss that can take it’s time because they have the time to take. Even so— 

“Bedroom?” Wade suggests.

“Table,” replies Nathan.

Afterward, there will be time for the bed. For Wade’s bed, because it’s too big and the satin sheets can be tossed in the trash. Nathan will move his things into that bedroom, place his gun beneath the bed and the teddy bear on the desk. They’ll sleep together and watch terrible television and do their best to make a future worth living in. It won’t be perfect; they’re both fucked up. There will be fights and rifts, and probably some fantastic make up sex.

Nothing ever goes according to plan.

But sometimes it’s close enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Having watched Deadpool 2 about ten times by now, I finally wrote my own little fic. I hope you liked it and thanks for reading!


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